By Anna David

In Los Angeles I never find the men, only the boys. Perhaps because the town dream is celebrity (an excuse to play all day), the males here seem trapped happily in perpetual adolescence. It’s all about games and sex and drinking, a film executive says, pretty much summing up a typical LA boy’s dream activities. Even the ones in suits – the ones alleging to be men – seem interested only in chasing after perfect newbies with enhanced bosoms that flood L.A.X. daily (part of California’s fresh-meat for fresh-produce deal with the rest of the country). So convinced is the male Angeleno of his endless dating possibilities, L.A. girls have to get used to the fact that one day, out of the blue, he just may not call. The first boy who did this to me told me his reason years later: “You really needed to wax, baby,” he said, shrugging. “Down there.” Over time I got used to it. But when I grew up and the men around me didn’t, I began to suspect that things might be radically different on the other coast. I decided that a trip to New York was just what the waxer ordered.


“He’s good-looking, straight, the editor of a men’s magazine and I’ve never heard of him screwing over anyone I know. Either you’ve managed in one night to uncover New York’s undiscovered gem or there’s something really wrong with this picture.”

So says a friend of mine–one of those beautiful, cynical publishing girls who has a firm grasp on her city’s dating scene–when I tell her about making out with high-powered Magazine Guy in the cab the night before.

At first, I’m horrified and feel defensive on his behalf, but I slowly realize that she has a point. Nongeeky Magazine Guys, an only-in-New-York phenomenon, are intellectual rock gods to us Magazine Girls; if Viggo Mortensen and Dave Eggers could morph into one creature (who also had the power to hire us at a competitive salary or at least give us that world-weary-but-wise girl column we’ve been aching to write), he’d be the Magazine Guy. We definitely don’t have MG’s in L.A.

I meet him at the Hudson, Ian Schrager’s newest hotel, during an allegedly exclusive party for something no one in attendance seemed to be sure of. It’s my first evening in town and I’d slept maybe three hours the night before and not at all on the plane. I arrive feeling self-conscious about my outfit, a hybrid of New York and Los Angeles sensibilities–little black dress over Juicy jeans with a pair of slip-on Jimmy Choos–and I’m fully aware that I have dressed for the girls, not for the guys. (In New York, trendiness is everything; in Los Angeles, as long as it’s sexy, it doesn’t matter how last year it is.) Two seconds after I walk into the hotel, a girl gives me the up-and-down and promptly spills a drink on me.